


But I Wouldn’t Want to Paint It

by WalterBrubeck



Category: Original Work
Genre: Analogpunk, Novel, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Romance, Slice of Life, Space Opera, noir
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 11:07:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15705996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WalterBrubeck/pseuds/WalterBrubeck
Summary: A sworn knight, Taft’s love of his life is on the moon.He’s stuck on homeworld with her sister. The War looms closer. Allmother sleeps.





	But I Wouldn’t Want to Paint It

* * *

 

**A Novel**  

**by Walter Brubeck**

 

* * *

 

 

* * *

  **Episode 1:**

 

[**_freyjaville._**  ](https://youtu.be/GkL7cVqIZHU)

* * *

 

It was a treblenight, the second of three whole days when our little patch of space doesn’t get a single drop of sunlight due to our oblong orbit. 

It was chilly, like it always was. A stick of bacca kept me company, kept me warm. 

A crackle of heat filled my lungs with my next drag, echoing softly on my tongue when I exhaled. A cloud of baby blue wisped from my pursed lips, a cloud that crackled against the swirling night, temporary stars. When the blue faded, I could see it again: that damned splotch of black, crisscrossed with gridlines of city streets and interlacing interstates.

Clemente, the “Golden Moon”. A sunbaked territory, overpopulated, dry, suburbs linked by sprawling savanas and arched irrigation canals, home to the Tribe’s biggest celebrities. Most of the Tribe’s population also lived there, regardless of its status as the Tribe’s smallest territory. 

It was a place of glamor and glitz, and it was that sort of place that stole her from me. 

Cayenne. 

Just the thought of her wistful smile made me suck a longer drag, and I spat it out at the thought of the baron she ran off with. 

I aimed it more intently at that damned moon before I let my head fall downwards. There was a breeze tonight, and tips of my hair brushed against my brow. 

Cayenne, Cayenne, Cayenne. 

 _Princess_ Cayenne, heir of the Snoqualmie Dynasty, next in line for the throne of the Roquai Tribe territories. The current ruler, Queen Prika, was the latest of a long, long, long line of descendants, a sacred bloodline with roots on their family tree deeper than the roots of the Life Tree itself.  

Big shoes to fill. 

She had to live up to Queen Prika’s lauded achievements in handling the delicate situation with the growing tensions between us and our bi-yearly neighbors of the Ohno Tribe that passed by in the orbit of our sun every winter (and stayed in intimate proximity until that winter ends), her surgical precision in the handling of our plateauing economy, and (of course) her tactical insight in our centuries-long war with the Colean Tribe. 

And those very few examples from Queen Prika’s long laundry list of lifetime achievements served to highlight a very simple fact: 

Being the Queen of a halidom is fucking hard. Too hard for a girl like Cayenne. 

I was hopelessly in love with her, and even I knew that. She wouldn’t have run off with that Clementinian baron if the opposite were true. 

Another drag, a satisfying crackle, another sigh. 

I let the breeze brush through my hair again, just like Cayenne’s fingers when she let my head rest on her lap. I blinked and I was there, feeling her thighs shudder with her giggles, her grey eyes twinkling. She looked down at me, fondly, her fingers absentmindedly brushing through my hair as the sunlight refracting through the shade of our favorite pine tree did the same with hers. I remember every word of that conversation, it was the summer of- 

A particularly-hard gust of wind grabbed the collar of my trenchcoat and made it slap my cheek. 

Reality unclouded my eyes and I wasn’t looking up at Cayenne anymore-I was looking down, watching as the Life Tree spilled and spilled vast amounts of misty clouds into the patchy sea of white that spread across the entirety of the planet. 

Down here, where I belonged. 

Despite myself, I couldn’t help but strain my neck to look up again. What was she doing right now? It was around noon. She must be at some chic restaurant, commenting on the complex palates of a singular raw piece of Titanian shrimp. All while her baron would look at her as I did, making her laugh as I did, subtly brushing against her shoe underneath the table, as I did.

These thoughts always ran through my head whenever I looked up at Clemente. And these days, I found myself looking up more than I’d prefer. 

I coughed. And soon more coughs turned into hacks. 

A long drag too long, and in the middle of my fit I figured it best if I just threw the rest of the joint over the railing. With tears in my eyes as I heaved, I watched the blue lit end of the bacca stick turn over and over and over until it faded into the sea of mist. 

I caught my breath, took a few steps backwards, and fell onto the small ornate bench of the palace balcony. 

When would I stop looking up? Up not just to Clemente, but to Cayenne? 

Because that’s where she always belonged, always where she _should_ belong: above me.  

It was just that back then, when I was her personal guard, when I foolishly fell heads over heels in love with her, she wasn’t _literally_ above me, thousands of miles out of reach. 

It gave me a sense of security, the illusion that her reciprocated flirtations and attention meant that she would compromise that pecking order. That she was on the same level as me. That she belonged here, instead of wherever she wanted. 

So I wasn’t mad at her that day, when I helped her board her shuttle while the boyfriend she just met during a gala two weeks prior watched on from the plush, leather-lined interior. I wasn’t mad at that baron either. 

Cayenne was never mine to begin with. Her world, literally or otherwise, was always a world I’d have to crane my neck up to see. _Just_ see.  

Besides, as much as I loved her, I wouldn’t leave this planet for anywhere else. 

I looked straight ahead, at the sea of mist and the occasional peaks of mountains and overreaching pine-covered hills. The swirls of nebulae, the twinkling of distant systems, and the shifting tides of seadust cast a subtle, multicolored sheen onto the cloud canopy, and the way the soft-tinted white churned and carelessly whisked those colors into a gentle ambrosia made me smile. 

I was born here, the hub of the Roquai Tribe territories, the home of the Life Tree, and birthplace of our sacred Mother. The planet Phifendyr. 

Or, as all of us homeworld locals call it, “The Phife”. 

I’ve gone off-planet, sure. Hell, I’ve visited other systems. Who hasn’t? 

But something about the Phife always brings me back. 

It has almost everything I could ever want or need. It’s my roots, my future, my home. 

I just pray to Mother that Cayenne could one day see that. Maybe it can be like

old times again. Maybe then the Phife could truly have _everything_ I could ever want or need.  

Before habit could pull out another joint, my right pocket beeped. I sighed. 

It beeped again and I knew it would keep beeping if I didn’t get back inside the palace right away. I stood, and mid-beep, I pulled out my pager. 

_YO, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU_

 

**beep!**

 

_I SWEAR IF UR DAYDREAMING ABOUT MY SISTER AGAIN_

 

**beep!**

 

_COME ASAP_

 

**beep!**

 

_HEY_

 

**beep! beep!**

 

_HEY_

 

**beep! beep! beep!**

 

_HEY_

 

**beep! beep! beep! beep!**

 

_HE-_

 

I put it back in my pocket. I knew where I needed to go. 

The balcony was on the left flank of the throne room. I cut across it, nodding to the guards that stood sentry on either side of the empty golden chair between them. Tapestries laden with traditional interlace adorned every wall, shelves upon shelves of sacred pottery housing the ashes of Queens glowed with holy light. This room was the heart of the Roquai Tribe. It has been for as long as anyone could remember. 

The room always invoked awe, a sentiment that was somewhat dampened due to the elaborate television broadcasting setup and numerous electric heaters situated around the room. 

We didn’t have many visitors. 

I crossed into the hallway, nodding at more guards, more sentinels. A few more turns and I was there. Two tall, tall oak doors that stretched several dozen feet into the ceiling stood before me, two imposing sentinels standing aside each of them, donning sacred tribal armor. Two pairs of beady green eyes, shrouded in the shadow of wooden beaks, glared at me. 

“Hey, fellas.” 

More glares. 

I slipped off the glove of my left hand, showing them the birthmark. It didn’t glow like it was supposed to, but it garnered the appropriate response all the same. 

With that, the sentinels reached over, one door each, respectively, and granted me entrance. 

This was one of the royal bedchambers. Not Queen Prika’s, no. _Those_ doors were made of wood from the Life Tree itself, and had at least two dozen or so guards lining the hallway that led to it. I’ve never been there myself, nor have I had any business to. 

No, these quarters belonged to the girl who impatiently stood before me, arms crossed, hands on her pager with a small pout on her lips. 

Princess Nutmeg. 

A name that is just as embarrassing as it sounds. And such, she insisted everyone call her- 

“What is it, Meg,” I said, every word a sigh. The doors shut with a resounding boom behind me, and I was left alone with her in the darkness of her room. “I was on break.” 

“You reek of bacca.” 

“Is it any of your business what I do in my free time?” 

“It’s my business when you do that shit on palace grounds,” Meg continued, eyes defiant and thoroughly annoyed. “Especially after you very obviously and insistently ignore all my pages! You own that thing for a reason.” 

“Yeah, whatever. What do you want.” 

It was Meg’s turn to sigh. The frilly and very girly nightgown didn’t suit her. 

“Come on, let’s watch a movie.” 

So that’s why it was dark; Meg always favored her room lit  as bright as it could be, annoyingly so. She hated treblenights. 

She didn’t wait for my answer before turning on her heel and briskly walked over to her desk. Several blocky plastic monitors hummed, all connected with a jumbled mess of wires to her computer rig. Top of the line, apparently. It hummed even more annoyingly that the harsh glare of those monitors, like a Bi-prop gearing up for liftoff.

Above the slipshod array of monitors, her room’s projection screen was already lowered, ready to play whatever memory disc she so desired; several shelves-full of memory disc after memory disc of Meg’s movies and shows occupied the entire wall opposite her bed, most of them having two copies (one unopened to be kept in “mint” condition, others for personal rewatches). 

I watched as she clacked away on her keyboard, leaning over her office chair as she excitedly replied to some chatroom or some forum. 

“Can’t you just watch it by yourself?” I said, already making my way to the edge of her bed. I threw my trenchcoat aside to the pile of her own clothes. Ballgowns, corsets, bodices and the like mixed with her favored sweatshirts, short shorts, and novelty tees. 

I sat down, already knowing the answer.

“That’s no fun.”

I resigned to my fate. She started turning off her monitors, one click after another, letting the blank white of the whirring projector be the only focal point of light in the entire room. 

“Fine. What are we watching?” 

“ _Nova Outlaw_. There’s a new trilogy coming up and I wanna rewatch it to prep for it.”

“That shitty old cartoon with giant robots? Shouldn’t you be watching soaps or whatever you kids do nowadays?”

“Get off it, Taft, you’re only like a year older than me.”

Satisfied with the darkness, Meg strode over to the projector console situated on the opposite end of the room. By the time she came to join me on the edge of her bed that was our usual perch, I already had an assortment of her stuffed animals and pillows propped up behind me. A bit of fumbling around in the dark also bore the fruit of a bowl of popcorn, and several smaller bowls of Meg’s favorite candy. 

Apparently I didn’t fumble around hard enough, because she reached behind a blue bear and pulled out a few more bowls, one particularly-large one filled to the brim with peach rings. 

 _My_ favorite candy.  

Without another word, we sat and watched _Nova Outlaw_. Schlock, as I expected it to be. Something I’d probably appreciate more if I were a decade younger. Meg, as usual, constantly praised the film, denoting character beats and directorial choices that would “revolutionize the industry”, point out certain frames worked on by animators whose names I didn’t bother remembering.  

Fortunately, the runtime was quick. The popcorn bowl was almost diminished, and I wanted to leave. I said so, but Meg just shushed me, and pulled out another bowl of popcorn from under the bed. I was gonna raise protest again, to which she pulled out a bag of peach rings and threw it onto my lap. 

We ended up watching the entire trilogy without stopping; the memory disc was a limited edition bundle. 

“Good, right?” 

“Sure.” 

“Nice, now you can take me to the premiere next week.” Meg said, hopping off the bed and making her way to the projector. The bag she handed me after the first movie was almost empty. “Before that though, I have to show you the prequel trilogy…” 

“Alright,” I said, firmly. “We’re leaving.” 

“Dude, come on-“ 

“Nope, no, I’ve had enough of the Sarsparilla Crew or whatever-“ 

“The _Starmadillo Squad_.” 

I sighed. 

“Yeah. Or _whatever_. Let’s go out.” 

I already had my trenchcoat on. I felt the pack of bacca joints in the breast pocket, and I was itching to get out into the night air. 

Meg groaned, but she was already shimmying off her nightgown. I turned towards the door for her privacy. I heard her ruffling through her clothespile that would have her mother fuming if she wasn’t so busy with the defense against the recent Colean excursions near the Roquai strait.

“Where?” 

“How’s Freyjaville sound?”

I could almost _hear_ the grin on Meg’s face then.  

“Okay.” Then, I heard it falter. “...and we’re not going in your shitty station wagon, are we?” 

“It’s called a _Dodson_ , and yes, we’re going in it.”

“Dude-“ 

“We’re going in the Dodson. I’ll wait for you outside.”

I felt the crumpled ball of her nightie hit me square in the head, but I kept walking, and my mind wandered to Cayenne as soon as the doors shut behind me.

Meg took her sweet, sweet time. Probably revenge for taking her in the station wagon she so loathed. The sentinels weren’t very good company, and despite my frequent visits to her chambers over the years, they still didn’t trust me.

Couldn’t really blame them; it was their job after all, just as much as babysitting was mine.

Meg finally strode through the doors, clothed in a hoodie and jeans. She looked just like any normal girl, and even without a disguise, everyone outside these palace walls would see her as such. 

We made our way through the palace corridors. It didn’t take too long before the silence of our strides was broken by her talking more about _Nova Outlaw._ It became pink noise by the third corner, and Cayenne fogged over my mind. We used to walk through here too, run through them when she was feeling silly. The apparitions I absentmindedly stared after were broken every few seconds by an overexcited hand gesture, or an insistent poke. 

By the time we were almost at the garage, I was listening to her, despite how lost I was at the deep lore she kept throwing at me.

She and her sister shared the same trait of babbling. Meg about her movies, shows, and war, Cayenne about brands, celebrity gossip, and socialite drama. Neither batch of talk truly captivated me.

But even with Meg, it was hard not to admire their passion. For things that I saw as benign.

I caught the retreating foot of a butler when we passed through the threshhold into the Snoqualmie family garage. The help, other than the guards and sentinels, were supposed to make themselves scarce. Tradition, as was most of the things that held this joint together, despite being outdated and amusingly benign; I remember Cayenne intentionally trying to cram the help into the worst of places for fun, the winner probably being three maids shoving themselves into a broom closet when she unexpectedly strode into the hallway they were sanitizing. 

We walked for a while longer. The Snoqualmie family garage is everything you’d expect of royalty; rotating platforms, flattering lighting, spotless shine and polish, cars from the earliest roadsters to the most modern of exotics. It spanned the entire length of the palace underneath, two floors below the ground level, right under the kitchen and indoor hot springs.

It took is a few minutes, but finally, after dozens upon dozens of pristine sets of wheels, we arrived upon my favorite: my ‘703 Dodson. Due to my position as Meg’s personal ward, they allowed me to park it here, right next to cars that were all at least quadruple the value of mine.

It was a standard station wagon with all the bells and whistles; wood panelling, four headlights, manual three-speed gearbox, five doors, three cupholders. It was my dad’s, been riding in it since I was a kid. It needed some new upholstery (cotton peaked out of several places in the seats), maybe new shocks, probably a new rearview mirror, but other than that, it was the most dependable thing in my life.

And because of that, I took care of her as best I could. 

Part of that care was making sure she had the mileage she deserved, which, in hindsight, was probably just justification for my constant urge to cruise with that familiar hum under me, the smell of musky carpeting and my dad’s favorite pine air freshener in my nose.

It was familiar, and it was a constant. I clung to it as hard as I could, and it made me smile more than five packs of bacca ever could. 

This was, of course, all to Meg’s dismay, who’d much rather ride in one of her many, many supercars and roadsters than she would bump around in this old thing. 

But, as with many of my habits, I had justification for that too. One that I repeated once we buckled in and waited for the garage doors to open. She had that small pout on her face, the one she did without even trying. A face she pretty much always made whenever she was subjugated to sitting shotgun in the Dodson. 

“Low profile, Meg.” 

“Yeah, yeah, just drive, man.” 

Foot planted in the clutch, I turned the key, and the Dodson purred to life. I was about to roll us out before I remembered. 

“Wait. Prayer.”

Meg sighed. She knew I’d make her do it. 

We both closed our eyes, and I clutched the golden chain around my neck. Meg clutched the chain around her wrist. A few muttered words of the Mother granting us a safe journey, a brief gratitude for our blessings, then, a ‘Through Mother, we live.’ From both our lips. A kiss on our respective chains concluded the prayer, and I let a moment pass by before I eased on the gas, and rolled us out of the garage into the treblenight.

Soon we were out of the palace gates, rolling down into the town after passing through the five checkpoints on the singular, solitary road to Meg’s home.

We passed several of the behemoth lichen-covered antiair turrets installed around the palace, following the road until we had to close the windows due to passing through the cloud cover. It was thick, thicker than any fog. Even with highbeams, the only thing we could see was white. Eventually we slipped under, the bright warmth of the night sky gone, and the black splotch of Clemente no longer to be seen.  
  
Instead, the only thing that pierced through the cloud cover was the light of our biggest moon, and the Tribe’s third territory: Erzenheim. A mining moon, that-due to its sparse and white landscape-allowed the distant sun to bless the Phife with light no matter how thick the cloud cover got, no matter how far away from the sun our orbit would take us. 

We rolled on through the provincial town of Lichtenfel that was only a mile from the palace. It was quiet. Tourist season wasn’t for a few months, so the famed “town of the Life Tree” was quiet. It wasn’t a particularly big town, and it was never truly bustling. It was just a remnant of the past, streets still cobblestone, statues of forgotten heroes and dignitaries standing sigil hundreds of feet above ground level. It only took about two minutes for us to drive through it.

We made our way down the 97, the Rim of the World Highway. It winded down and down and down, etched into the wood of the Life Tree, serpentine in its curves. To be more specific, the road winded down a particularly large root, running down its slope until we hit the main interstate.

Its incline was so gradual and comfortable that you couldn’t even feel the decrease (or increase) in altitude until your ears popped.

The lower we got, the more trees began to appear. The first one sprouted about halfway, the very edge of the timberline that dared to root itself into the Life Tree. Twenty or so minutes later, after a silence of us just listening to one of Meg’s mixtapes (we kept a case full of them in the glove compartment), we reached ground level.

The smell of the air freshener was dwarfed the instant I opened the sunroof, dwarfed by that smell that never passed the cloud cover. I knew Meg loved it too, that sharp tang of pines, spruces, firs, hemlocks, and larches. Small offspring of the Life Tree, the native and indigenous plantlife that outnumbered every single human soul that resided in the Roquais Territories. The billions of trees that earned the Phife our nickname as “The Evergreen Planet”.

I looked over at her, and saw the smile on her face. She turned to me and we shared it. 

Unlike the mostly-deserted 97, the main autobahn was full of life. Cars, trucks, and semis constantly zoomed past in the opposite lanes, some zooming past in the lane next to us.

“You hungry?” I said, raising my voice a but above the wind, whoosh of passing traffic, and the syncopathic beats from the grainy speakers.

“Sure.”

“Wanna hit up Duckworth’s or should we just eat on the ferry?” 

“I’m fine with the ferry.” 

Lights of the autobahn passed by above us in a slow rhythm. Orange against the overcast monochrome. Green signs directing traffic towards exists and intersecting highways passed by too, an occasional overpass echoing the clunky hum of the Dodson.

The air got chillier after I eventually took an exit. The offramp slipped down a hill, and kept winding down, deeper into forest. We hit several stoplights along the way. Meg leaned with arms crossed against her window, admiring the trees. We may have lived in the biggest one on all the Phife, but it wasn’t the same with being surrounded by them.

Driveways leading to humble homes drifted by, stoplight after stoplight, streetlights offering guidance along with powerlines that dipped and rose in long black lines. We passed a few convenience stores, shopping plazas, and fast food joints along the way, but those eventually tapered out. 

The chill that followed us since we took the exit got chillier, until the air that pricked my skin matched the air outside of the palace above the cloud cover; it’s good thing we were dressed appropriately. The source of the cold eventually revealed itself over the next crest of pavement. 

The Sacred Sound, the largest body of water on all the Phife, stretched out before us. Orange of lights along the coastline glittered onto the shimmering of the cold sea like stars around Clemente. The Sound was what quenched the Life Tree’s thirst; it gave the water necessary for it to grow, but more importantly, it provided the moisture for the Life Tree to shift the Phife’s four seasons.

It was the Sound that provided the cloud cover, the endless sea of overcast white that remained until the short summers. Naturally, it takes a massive amount of water for the Life Tree to pump out clouds in incessant roiling sheets, which is why the Sound covered a fifth of the entire planet. 

Still, from where we were, it didn’t look like much. It was no ocean. 

Islands and peninsulas and inlets and mountains made sure the Sound didn’t have much room to spread, making the entire thing look like a giant, blotchy river than a sea.

The suburbs were replaced with more traditional buildings here along with some more posh ones. Old log cabins stood alongside gated villas and a choice few mansions, five star restaurants overlooking the Sound leisurely clung to the downwards hill leading to the beach, art galleries occupied retrofitted mead halls, hip microbreweries proudly hung neon over the refurbished wood of ancient longhouses.

It was much more bustling here than it was up in Lichtenfel. It was no Clementinian valley of stars, but it was high class all the same.

It was where Cayenne frequented. Where _we_ frequented. I still remember her favorite restaurant: some chique Florentian fusion joint. She always got a kick from how they served caviar in basket cups.

We rolled to a stop. A long snake of red brakelights trickled down the hill, the queue for the ferry. Luckily for us, we could catch the lights of the ferry drifting through the inky black, and it didn’t take longer than 15 minutes before the red snake slithered, slowly but surely, onto that light-studded cake that waited for us on the dock. 

Fare was cheap. About six wampum, and soon enough the Dodson was comfortably nestled inside bumper to bumper. Once the traffic guard gave us the thumbs up, Meg and I got out of the car. I locked the door. Meg didn’t need to be told to do the same with hers. 

We made our way up the central stairwell up from the car deck to the passenger deck. Here, we waited for the ferry to disembark. There was row upon row of plastic chairs, many facing forward, some rows facing inward, some facing outward. We chose two that faced outward. A few televisions were mounted on the walls, all of them broadcasting the same news channel-the same usual shit about the Colean threat in the Roquai Strait.

There was a distinct smell in the air, a mixture of musk and chemicals. Like a hospital hallway mixed with the floor of a bus. It was a familiar scent though, one that harkened back to weekend trips to Skagit Island with my dad. Therefore, it was a good one, despite Cayenne’s utter distaste of it the few times I tried taking her on the ferry (she always insisted we take her shuttle, and that’s eventually how we always traveled across the Sound).

But moreso than the times I shared with my dad, the familiarity of the ferry and its quirks was due to the innumerable amount of times Meg, the Dodson, and I would ride on it. Despite Meg’s incredible ability to binge foreign cartoons for hours upon hours on end, she’d never turn down a trip out. Even when she protested, I knew it would only take a few more prods and she’d eventually give in. She always did. 

 _Especially_ if it meant we’d be going to Freyjaville.

“You brought your annual pass, right?” I said, right after the jolt and loud resonant horn abovedeck signalled the ferry’s embarkment. 

Meg fished around in her jeans. It took a few moments and I heard the rustling of wrappers, some keys, credit cards…but eventually she pulled it out, satsified grin on her face. The plastic pass was scratched and faded to the point of near-illegibility; the anthropomorphic mascots on its face were almost completely peeled off. 

“Alright, good. I shoulda asked you in the car. We wouldn’t want a repeat of last week.” 

Meg rolled her eyes as she pocketed the pass. 

We sat there and argued about whose fault last week _really_ was before Meg shook it off with a smile and a “whatever” and stood up.  

“Chowder?” 

“Sure.”

The passenger deck “food court” was nestled in the corner next to the restrooms. It consisted of a cashier’s podium (complete with a bored, acne-ridden high schooler), about three or four little tables and plastic chairs, and a self-serve buffet-style smorgasbord. Most of the food was dished up since lunch, and refilled slowly throughout the day, meaning it was dry, old, and just all around inedible.

The only thing worth getting was the clam chowder. It sat at the end of the smorgasbord, hot and occasionally stirred to make sure it didn’t develop a film on top.

As per our usual routine, both of us slopped up a scoop of hot chowder into a cup, paid the five wampum (plus tax) to the cashier kid, and made our way to upstairs to the outdoor viewing deck.

The crisp and salty air blasted us the moment we stepped abovedeck. The ferry was at full speed. 

We shielded our cups of chowder (I always hated the fact that the joint didn’t have any goddamn lids, but what can you do?), and shuffled our way to our favorite spot: the stern. There were benches bolted around the entire circumfrence of the ferry for the viewing pleasure of passengers. Most of them were empty this time of the night. 

Meg and I let out a sigh once we sat our asses down. Our hands uncovered our paper cups, and I took out two cellophane-covered plastic spoons from my breast pocket.

“You forgot these again.” Meg handed me a couple plastic-wrapped crackers.

“Thanks.” 

The shore receded from our view ever-slowly, the bright lights of the beach town swallowed by inky treblenight. By the time the chowder and crackers were in our stomachs, the most prominent lights were the ones on the ferry itself, shining down into the frothy white of the wake churning below the stern.

With our backs sitting against the ferry’s topdeck control room, we were shielded against the biting wind of the Sound. I got up from the bench with both our empty chowder cups, empty cracker wrappers nestled inside. There was a trash can right beside the bench. 

I looked into the darkness. The shoreline was a long black line now, studded with lights that shimmered onto the Sound. Quiet as the scenery was, the ferry was loud. There was a constant churn of hundreds of pounds of water, the engine slaving away, the hum of electricity. 

But it was still tranquil all the same. I leaned against the railing overlooking the wide, white wake the ferry left behind. Meg joined me, hood covering her ears. A stick of bacca was already in between my fingers, and my free hand instinctively fumbling for my lighter.

I could sense her distaste when the flicker of a brief orange flame gave way to the sizzle of a blue one. But I took a drag all the same. 

Meg stayed silent, looking out, lost in thoughts of her own.

I was tempted to follow the outline of the Life Tree, follow its towering blackness that penetrated into the sky, that pointed an almighty finger towards Clemente. 

Meg stopped me before the silence gave way to my thoughts being overcome with her sister.

“Never gets old, does it?” 

“The chowder? It’s alright, but I still think it lacks pepper.”

“Nah. The chowder’s fine. I meant _this_.” Meg pointed towards the wake, the treblenight with her chin. “All of it.” 

She turned to me then, with a smile, with her eyes shimmering with the ferry lights like the shore lights on the Sound. I wanted to keep looking, but I felt something immediately tighten in my throat, and I only saw Cayenne. 

I looked out, away, pursing my lips tighter around the paper of my bacca. My lungs swelled with prickling heat before I blew it all out through my nose. 

“I couldn’t agree more.” I said. Mumbled. 

I didn’t dare look at her, not when she looked at me like that. And I still didn’t, even when she slipped away and sat back down on the bench behind me, warm smile unreciprocated. 

I felt her eyes on my neck.

 

* * *

 

Meg slipped in through the turnstile first. I followed suit, scanning the barcode of my annual pass. It was about twenty or so minutes after we drove off the ferry. It wasn’t too far away; most of that time was dedicated to parking spot hunting. 

With a beep, the turnstile loosened, and the attendant beamed me a wide smile. She wore a ridiculous pointy red hat, banded in an interlace graphic.

It was meant to make the employees of the park look like jovial colonists from an age long gone, but it just made them all look like gnomes. 

Freyjaville was a theme park. Rather, it was _the_ theme park. Created by multibillion-wompum entertainment mogul Wally Freyja, Freyjaville set the standard for theme parks across the entire galaxy. At the time, there was at least twenty five or so Freyjavilles across dozens of systems (one of them smack-dab in the middle of Colean territory, on their homeworld of Corinth). All the parks featured a metric shitton of licensed properties, from Freyja Studios and beyond, and was always being updated while keeping its familiar, whimsical atmosphere.  

I’ve visited a few, seen how big and grand those other Freyavilles are, but for my money, nothing could be the original Freyjaville, the galaxy’s first theme park of its kind. 

Everyone on the Phife has visited it at least once. And if you live close to it, you’re bound to own an annual pass, just like Meg and I did. 

We made our way through the front plaza at a leisurely pace. A crowd was gathered in one corner, and I could hear small guttural bellows and occasional flumes of fire accompanied by a yelps, “oohs”, and applause; it was the wyvern demonstration, featuring Freyjaville’s resident wyvern toddler, Odinson. 

Elsewhere in the circular plaza were people getting their pictures taken by park staff that stood ready with cameras on tripods, others shopping for gifts in stalls selling a plethora of licensed merch. 

Meg and I made our way straight through the plaza towards the giant castle in the center that served as the park’s centerpiece, as well as its main entrance. By all standards, it was pretty much a replica of the Snoqualmie family palace, just much more exaggerated, colorful, and cartoonish. 

Still, it was a sight to see, its plaster walls doused in multicolored spotlights, spires plated in gold flake, windows lit from the inside. Just like the usual places Meg and I frequented, the sight of Freyja’s Castle never got old. 

The instant we passed through the drawbridge and mouth of the castle, we were doused in light. Every single inch of Freyjaville (meticulously-thought out to be separated into six different “Kingdoms” representing six main themes) was created with the sole intent to dazzle its guests. 

 _Especially_ at night.  

No matter which Kingdom you’d walk into, lights blinked and flashed and snaked and popped. The current one we strolled through was the Kingdom of Stars, the first Kingdom to encounter right out of Freyja Castle’s mouth. 

Every attraction, every stall, and every ride was covered in the warm orange of incandescent bulbs, not a single one dim or dead. It was a relic from decades’ past when the park and attractions of this it first opened. It filled me with a homey, quaint feeling as warm as the hue of the bulbs themselves. 

Carnival music followed us as we walked through. Characters from famous Freyja Studios properties danced about, posing for pictures, signing autograph books. I let Meg lead the way. 

“We’re going on _Quest for Peace_.” She said, voice barely audible above the pipe organ that blasted inside the vertical carousel we were walking around. 

“Come on, again?” 

It was her favorite ride. 

“Yeah, again. You finally watched _Nova Outlaw_ , man. Now you can actually get the story. It _is_ canon too, y’know.” 

We exited the Kingdom of Stars, and walked through a circle of pavement with a fountain in the middle. Its water shone with colored light from submerged bulbs, rising and falling, yellow one second, orange the next, a cacophony of a rainbow the last. This was the Hub. Like the center of a spoked wheel, it branched out into all six Kingdoms, paths leading into arched entrances. 

We strode over to the Battle Kingdom. A Kingdom of neon and replicas of turrets and bi-props and Behemoths mixed in with a plethora of fictional vehicles and weapons of war. Of course, this was Meg’s favorite. 

A world’s difference from Cayenne’s, a Kingdom that lay directly across from it in the Hub. A Kingdom Meg knew to avoid when she was here with me. 

“Oh, Mother!” Meg said in a surprised yelp. We were a few strides away from the queue for _Quest for Peace_ , the entrance marked with a large, moving replica of the Starmadillo Squad’s famous mecha. Meg pointed at the red neon number on the stand next to it. “Look at the queue time!” 

It was 15 minutes. 

I knew what it meant, and I followed her wordlessly into the queue, thinking of how much I wanted to just slip away into the designated smoking area for some bacca. 

We rode _Quest for Peace_ four times. Meg prattled and prattled on now that I had watched the films the ride was based on, saying how much _more_ I’d appreciate the craftsmanship of it if I had just watched the prequel trilogy too.  

Meg’s voice turned into pink noise again, and I stared straight ahead as she continued. 

Cayenne did the same the last time we were here together. Ramble and gush about things I didn’t care about at all. The only difference was that when Cayenne rambled, I hung on to her every word. 

As we walked on, Meg’s head turned into Cayenne’s. The neon and futuristic angular aesthetics of the Battle Kingdom fell away, replaced with silk and gold and crystal. 

We were in the Kingdom of Splendor, walking through some display of cloaks and gowns from the turn of the last century. 

“Lady _Cinnamon_ , Taft!” Cayenne said, designer sunglasses almost falling off her silk scarf-wrapped head. “I don’t know how Freyja could get these shawls of hers, but just...just _look_ at it!” 

I grinned, toothily. 

I didn’t appreciate the significance of the clothing as much as she did, of course, but her exuberance was contagious. 

“Yeah.” 

Cayenne laughed, and leaned over the guardrail. I kept an eye about to see if any security was coming to stop her. 

She went to the next exhibit, and the next, dragging me along with her. She was like sunshine, gold of the extravagant chandeliers in the exhibit dripping through the curves of her bound obsidian hair like syrup. Her hand in mine was warm velvet. 

“And _this_ ...Sir Reuental’s dinner jacket. I never thought I’d actually get to see it with my own eyes, but…” she sighed with a dazed look in her eyes, and I stared. She looked up at me, and stared back. “It’s just _great_ isn’t it, Taft?” 

I never knew it was possible to encapsulate such pure elation into such a simple word. 

“It is.” 

We walked through the rest of the exhibits, and then we walked out of the exit, only to do it all again. Eventually we resigned to just walk around the Kingdom of Splendor, cones of soft serve in our hands. She had strawberry swirl. I had chocolate. 

It was obvious that the park spent an extra amount of budget here. Chandeliers of crystal suspended in midair, decorative pires of polished garnet, every surface seemingly caked in gold flake. 

I didn’t see why Cayenne would derive so much enjoyment from this place, especially since she lived in such extravagance as the princess of the Roquais Tribe.

 

But of course, why would I question anything that gave her such a sparkle in her eye? 

She always finished her food after me; she liked savoring it longer. We sat on a bench on a lookout situated a few hundred feet above the park. It was a hill with an extravagant ballroom perched at its peak, an attraction where you can waltz with holographic depictions of history’s most famous figures. Amidst all of the newer additions, coupled with the long hike up several flights of stairs, it was one of the most vacant areas of Freyjaville. 

Here, Cayenne was free to let loose her hair, rid herself of the sunglasses. She softly kept at it with her ice cream, dainty licks interspersed between several long seconds of gazing down at the Kingdom of Splendor. Her head was light against my shoulder, the grip of her fingers around my elbow just as so. I felt compelled to steady my breathing, worried that the rise and fall of my lungs would be too intrusive to my shoulder’s role as her pillow. 

“I can’t wait to get out of here with you.” 

Her ice cream had long been finished by now. We sat there, hearing the gentle lilts of swing meandering from the ballroom. 

“I can’t either.” I said. Half-lied. 

The Phife was my home, but I figured anywhere in any system would be just as good if it was with her. 

“It really is a struggle for us to just... _be_ , isn’t it? I didn’t ask to be who I am, I didn’t ask for the Coleans...I just want to get away from it all.” 

“You didn’t ask for your lowly knight to fall in love with you either.” 

She wrapped both her arms around mine then, pressing her chest against me with her cheek. I felt her heartbeat: languid staccato. 

“There’s very few things that I don’t ask for that I want-” 

I felt her lift her head off me, prompting me to look down at her head, tilted up to gaze at me with eyes that knocked me dead. The residual light of splendor softly framed her like a halo, her lips looking like the ripest of fruit. 

“-for things that I _love_.” 

We kissed. Languid staccato. Lips shifting, locking, my hands on her cheek, her neck, her hands on my chest, my jaw. She breathed hotly when my lips softly wisped butterflies onto the skin of her throat. 

Things cooled off and she was leaning into me again, just looking out at the park, at the distant Sound. 

“It doesn’t matter when,” I said. Promised. Half-lied. “You’ll get off this place, and we’ll go wherever we want.” 

“Mmm. A knight and his princess, off to see the stars. Damned cheesy, isn’t it?” 

“Yes. Perfect for a prim and straight-laced gal like you, right?” 

She tittered. 

“Don’t be such a louse, Taft.” 

We spent another minute watching the distant glittering line of an inter-territory express line softly chugging away through the stratosphere, free of shackles. 

“But...I wouldn’t mind staying here if you did.” 

“You don’t mean that.” 

The grip tightened, the heartbeat a little more staccato than languid. 

“I’m serious. You don’t know how many times I’ve come here since I was a kid. But it’s like someplace entirely new when I’m with you. I can just...breathe, stay next to you, and smile just knowing you’re breathing too.” 

“...you’re right.” 

“Hm?” 

I buried my nose in her hair. 

“You really are damned cheesy.” 

She tittered again, coupled with playful light punches against my arm. The night stretched on, and we just kept staring off into the park, the Sound, the sky, together, mumbling platitudes and flirts and dirty little nothings. 

Her finger charted out the stops we’d make from planet to planet. I was entranced, as if her hand was the touch of the Mother herself. 

Then we’d just lose ourselves in the vast expanse of the sky itself. It was summertime, so the cloud cover was mostly gone. Swirls of nebulae, the dancing spots of our rings, the distant promise of planets. 

I could almost taste our future looking up at the sky like that. My cheeks fucking hurt by smiling so much thinking about it, by just having her pressed up against me. 

Someday. 

Someday I’d be up there, on some shuttle, some galactic expressway. 

The night contrasted so warmly with the Sound.

 

Someday. 

“Taft…” 

She’d whisper. And I knew it meant that I’d just say her name, and we’d keep staring, staring, staring. 

“Hey, _Taft_ …” 

Concern laced with sadness. 

I realized the view wasn’t unhindered anymore; there was plexiglass separating me from it all, and there wasn’t any warmth around my arm. My eyes weren’t twinkling with the prospect of a future. 

No, they were just tears. 

I felt a cold churro being gripped in my right hand. 

Almost frantic, I looked for Cayenne next to me- 

Meg looked at me, that concern in her eyes, that sadness in her gaze. 

I wanted to say something, but my lips just fell open and nothing but a sigh came out. I looked back out the plexiglass at where I was staring. We were hundreds upon hundreds of feet above Freyjaville. I suddenly remembered that Meg and I had wandered onto the observation tower, churros from a nearby stand in hand. 

My eyes focused in on what I had been staring at while Meg chattered away. 

The hill above the Kingdom of Splendor. It was shuttered away indefinitely; the ballroom was taking too much to maintain, and it was being torn down for some other new attraction. 

It was obvious Meg knew where I was staring, and I couldn’t stop a tear or two to splatter down onto my neck. 

“I-I I um, shit-“ I managed. 

I looked at my lap, ashamed. 

I realized she was gripping onto my hand, and that my knee was shaking. 

My pulse was full auto. My breathing not languid; full staccato. 

Meg didn’t need to tell me to breathe; the tightening of her hand around mine was all the indication I needed. 

I desperately wanted to reach for my bacca, but the observation tower had a no-smoking policy. 

Eventually, with lots of gritting teeth and shutting eyes tight, I calmed. 

I looked at Meg again, and she gave me a smile, the concern still very much in her eyes, but relief plastered all over her face. 

“We’re down here on the Phife, space cowboy.” 

I didn’t bother saying thanks, but I smiled back. She gave me the eyes she gave me on the ferry. I looked out again. 

The tower had rotated us away from view of the hill. 

I looked back at Meg, and instead of looking away again, I stared back as best I could. It felt nice. I squeezed her hand. 

“Yeah.” 

A few minutes later, and I was a few bites into my churro. Meg’s hands were to herself, but she had a content smile on her face as the fireworks show began. 

My eyes didn’t wander upwards or anywhere near the Kingdom of Splendor for the rest of the ride. 

I stole a glance at her in the midst of the show. She was smiling wide to herself, eyes brighter than anything outside. Cayenne didn’t show up in that moment, and I only saw Meg. 

The fireworks show finished and there was only a few more minutes until the ride we were on would lower back to the ground. 

“Hey, Meg.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Let’s watch the prequel trilogy tomorrow.” 

I wasn’t looking at her, but I heard her lips crack into a grin. 

“Sick.” 

A pause. Then, 

“Can we take a roadster the next time we come?” 

My turn to pause. My palm messed around with the crumpled paper of my finished churro. 

“Sure.” 

Meg tittered, soft, but genuine. 

“Sick.” 

The cloud cover stretched out above and beyond the horizon, opaque against the night sky, but the lights of the Sound and Freyjaville were more than enough.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> Everything I upload here is a first draft.
> 
> Feedback welcome. Harsh criticism encouraged.


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